


Apples and Pears

by maivalkov



Series: EngSpaWeek2018 [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 15:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15732009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maivalkov/pseuds/maivalkov
Summary: Arthur and Antonio make a drunken promise, and somehow they pull it off.





	Apples and Pears

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #10 for @engspaweek2018
> 
> This one's for all my international chums who have had many a struggle understanding that Bob's your uncle and why the phone is a dog and bone.
> 
> (If I didn't pick this prompt I'd probably be the worst Brit ever, and my south London ancestors would be terribly ashamed. XD)

 It started with a joke, and a few beers in a London pub. Business was settled, duties completed, leaving Antonio and Arthur free to drink the evening away. To moan about foreign policies, and their on/off relationship with Francis.

The conversation was pleasant, entertaining, until they focused on what set them apart. How Antonio loved the sun, whereas Arthur thrived in rain. How Antonio thought the girls behind the bar were cute, whilst Arthur thought they should kindly fuck off.

Last of all they ranted about accents, and the abuse of the native tongues. How Arthur spoke with brutish, British charm, whilst Antonio played the english language like a fiddle. Stressing words in all the wrong places, and arranging them so poorly that Arthur could barely decipher their meaning.

The night ended on a low, as expected, and a slurred deal between two, irritable pissheads. Antonio vowed to grasp english by the next time they met, whilst Arthur promised to behave like a gentleman, as opposed to an arrogant prick.

 

* * *

 

 Several months later, Arthur ventured to his countryside home. Not the grand sort often shown on daytime television, created from converted barns, old churches and the like, but a simple little house, in a simple little village, with a decent pub to boot.

It was the perfect escape from the city, and as he sat at his kitchen table, sipping a freshly brewed tea, he felt nothing short of content. He skimmed the newspaper headlines for signs of trouble, but found no more than the usual celebrity gossip, and latest government lies.

“Stuff you all.” He proudly declared, rolling up the tabloid and tossing it into the bin. It hit the bottom with a satisfying clang, then disappeared under the roar of a car horn just beyond the living room window.

_“Arthur!!”_

“Bloody Antonio-” Arthur hissed, and turned to the calendar on the wall. He was about to tell the rude sod where to stick it, and have him catch the next flight home but when he spied the week circled in a bold red pen he sighed, and got up from his chair. He had forgotten all about his guest.

With a similar lack of enthusiasm he walked to the front door, and upon opening it shook his head in grief. There, at the end of his drive he found a fetching red and white Mini, alongside a grinning Antonio who hung out the driver’s window like a dog.

“Alright mate!”

Arthur squinted hard. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said alright!” Antonio beamed, then pointed to the house. “Lovely gaff you got there.”

“I don’t-” Arthur began, only to stop himself soon enough. Flashbacks of the London pub came back to haunt him, and though he had forgotten most of their conversation, and how he got home that night, he remembered their promise well.

“Strange weather we’re having, huh?” Antonio continued, having since learnt the art of small talk. “Clouds are a bit grey though, might have some rain comin’ on.”

“Indeed.” Arthur replied, watching Antonio clamber out of the car shortly after. As he hauled his suitcase from the boot he maintained his sunny, Spanish charm, whereas everything from his lips reeked of a distinct British twang. Arthur’s front garden was called top notch, _ace_ , and the view of the fields proper nice. When Arthur asked about his journey he swiftly regretted it, watching Antonio slip into another rabble of english.

“Oh it was a right palaver.” He started, both hands on his hips. “Flight was knackering. I fell arse over tit in the departure lounge, broke my suitcase in the process, and then some pillock almost drove up my backside on the way here!”

“How awful.” Arthur laughed, ushering Antonio towards the house. His idea of talking was as subtle as a fog horn. Too loud and lively for any of the sleepy inhabitants.

 

* * *

 

 Partway through his third cuppa, Arthur had adjusted to his fidgety, excitable guest. How he reeled out cockney slang and idioms with ease, and even used them in their appropriate context. He thought Antonio’s efforts were impressive, flattering, but Arthur would not let the victory get to his head. Not yet.

“Chin up.” Antonio chimed, sipping at his gritty, instant coffee. “You got a face like a smacked arse.”

“… How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“This.” Arthur gestured to Antonio with a hand. “The phrases, the mannerisms. You’ve nailed it.”

“Piece of piss.” Antonio stated, puffing up his chest. “Actually, I tell a lie. I made a right load of cock-ups at first. But then I read books, watched some films ‘n all that, and before I knew it there I was. Talking like one of you lot. Not too shabby if I say so myself!”

Fair enough, Arthur settled inwardly. Antonio looked and sounded like he had binged on every cult film England had to offer, but that was no bad thing. From the sturdy black boots with their telltale yellow stitching, to the green parka draped over the back of his chair, everything was perfect. All he lacked was a brolly and a flat cap, but Arthur could sort that easily enough.

“Oi.” Antonio piped up when the mood fell flat. “Whatcha’ got planned for today?”

Arthur glanced to the clock, and swallowed his mouthful of tea. “Footie kicks off at five.”

“It’s only half twelve now.” Antonio rightly pointed out. “You’ve got a pub-”

“And it’s my round, I believe.”

“Then you’d better shake a leg!” Antonio declared, rising from his seat in a hurry. His chair scuffed the tiles as it went, but Arthur paid it no mind just this once. Instead he stood up much calmer, and slower than Antonio, who creased his brow and grabbed his jacket with doubt.

“Did I… use that wrong?”

Arthur shook his head, still smiling. He paced round the table to Antonio’s side, helping him straighten his jacket, then pecked him softly on the lips.

“It was perfect.” He praised. “Now off you pop.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Fun fact: palaver (to my knowledge) is slang we derived from Portuguese, so Antonio probably won't use that one for long when he finds out.


End file.
